Dear Cameron,
I miss you. I wish I can just peek into heaven and see how well you're doing and see how happy you are. I want to see your precious face again, I want to hear your voice, your laugh, see your beautiful smile, feel your soft and delicate skin. All the things I wish to see will have to wait until I get there.
I survived my first "holiday". It was lonely without you. I expected to be pregnant on my birthday last week, reaching almost the end of my pregnancy. I had plans to go out to eat and watch you kick and move around after I finished my meal. I miss the pleasantly painful sudden kicks you would give me. That was the best part about being pregnant.
Instead, for my birthday, I spent most of my day sleeping. I cried a little,...well a lot... just to get it out. I really miss you.
My coworker bought me a cake, some balloons and a beautiful book called A Woman's Daily Prayer Book for women. She made me feel very special. It was in my moment of sorrow, the moment I almost allowed myself to stay in that raw place of hopelessness again when God sent my coworker with tools to help bring me out. She was just what I needed.
Thank you Lord.
I thanked her endlessly as I was fighting back tears after reading the most beautiful card I've received since Mother's Day. It was a card of strength, encouragement, celebration and friendship. It was the perfect card on a day such as that. A sad day turned beautiful knowing that someone though of me.
It wasn't until later when I realized that holidays can cause me to take a couple of steps backwards. It causes people who have lost loved ones to reminisce on their memory and what they used to do with them during that time of family and celebration.
But what about me? I never got that time with you Cam. I never got to spend Thanksgiving, Christmas, and New Years with you. Instead I "reminisce" on the memory I could have had. I have to imagine how your mouth would have drooled while I ate your Gigi's delicious candied yam. Or how your eyes, so bright and so beautiful as mine, would have lite up from all the lights on the decorative Christmas tree. Or how tired you would have been on New Year Eve but your older loving cousins Iris, Solomon, Cidney and Morgan would have been too loud and excited for you to fall asleep soundly. These are my memories. And they're so heart breaking because I will never get them.
I hope that makes sense.
I'm so thankful to see 23, but I just wanted to see 23 with you. This year was going to be extra special for me, and I guess it still is; in a different bittersweet kind of way. I'm thankful to have met you and to have you a part of my life forever. I wonder if 23 years from now I will be speaking of you the same way I am now.
I hope not. I hope I'm happier.
It may sound crazy, but although you're gone, you don't feel gone. I still feel you around, even as I write this letter to you, I still feel your presence, and I love it.
I love you Cameron.
Love Always,
Mommy
Monday, August 26, 2013
Monday, August 19, 2013
A Day of Hope- Miscarriage, Stillbirth, and Infant Death
Dear Cameron,
Today is August 19. Today is considered A Day of Hope in the miscarriage, stillborn, and infant death community. I don't understand this day very well since this is still so new to me; it's still fresh. I don't know if I'm suppose to have hope that this won't happen again or if I'm suppose to take the time to remember you and honor you. If either one are the case, I do that everyday.
Cameron, I hope this doesn't happen to me or to anyone else ever again. Although this hope is unrealistic, my hope is that when it does, that person is able to find the joy and love in the midst of their heartache. I hope they are able to know that their child is loved and will always be remembered. My hope is that every tear they cry is not cried in vain and that they remember that God loves them and He never left them. I hope that mother uses her strength to tell her story of her baby that one day she is able to help someone else who is going through the same thing. My hope is that she passes her hope to someone else to build them up. I hope she is a light and encouragement for others who may feel hopeless.
Losing a child, weather it be a miscarriage, stillbirth, or due to infant death can be a very lonely place, especially if someone doesn't know Jesus. However, I think mothers who have suffered, and those still suffering, from such a loss should always remember that we are not alone. Sometimes it is hard to seek the light in the midst of this trial, but we can be a light for each other. There are days when I would rather be in that dark place, but my friends, family, and the love of Jesus won't allow me to.
Sometimes I want to have my pity party of one, refreshments not included, and just be left alone, but something in me won't allow me to. Maybe that's my own hope, or my faith. Honestly I really don't know, but whatever it may be is so strong-willed that it doesn't even allow me to go to that raw devilish place most times.
My hope is that mothers no longer live in fear. That we continue to take care of ourselves and to remind ourselves that this (stillbirth, infant death, and miscarriage) is out of our control. We, mothers, are only the passing point for our children. We do not have the ability to peak inside our bellies and see what is going on. We cannot build-a-baby like we can a beautifully stuffed bear. I hope that we continue to enjoy pregnancy. My hope is also that we allow God to be God and remember that his plan is much greater than our own. We have to know that God sees the entire picture and that He knows what's best for us. I hope people allow the heart of a bereaved mother room to grieve and I hope people don't expect us to be strong all the time. I hope that women know that it truly and honestly gets better and that we will learn a lot about ourselves along the way. I hope we remember that God would not have allowed this to happen if He knew we couldn't bare it. I hope that mothers remember that although our children may have been stillbirths, they were still born and are very much still loved.
Now that's a realistic hope.
I love you Cam so much.
Love Always,
Mommy
Today is August 19. Today is considered A Day of Hope in the miscarriage, stillborn, and infant death community. I don't understand this day very well since this is still so new to me; it's still fresh. I don't know if I'm suppose to have hope that this won't happen again or if I'm suppose to take the time to remember you and honor you. If either one are the case, I do that everyday.
Cameron, I hope this doesn't happen to me or to anyone else ever again. Although this hope is unrealistic, my hope is that when it does, that person is able to find the joy and love in the midst of their heartache. I hope they are able to know that their child is loved and will always be remembered. My hope is that every tear they cry is not cried in vain and that they remember that God loves them and He never left them. I hope that mother uses her strength to tell her story of her baby that one day she is able to help someone else who is going through the same thing. My hope is that she passes her hope to someone else to build them up. I hope she is a light and encouragement for others who may feel hopeless.
Sometimes I want to have my pity party of one, refreshments not included, and just be left alone, but something in me won't allow me to. Maybe that's my own hope, or my faith. Honestly I really don't know, but whatever it may be is so strong-willed that it doesn't even allow me to go to that raw devilish place most times.
My hope is that mothers no longer live in fear. That we continue to take care of ourselves and to remind ourselves that this (stillbirth, infant death, and miscarriage) is out of our control. We, mothers, are only the passing point for our children. We do not have the ability to peak inside our bellies and see what is going on. We cannot build-a-baby like we can a beautifully stuffed bear. I hope that we continue to enjoy pregnancy. My hope is also that we allow God to be God and remember that his plan is much greater than our own. We have to know that God sees the entire picture and that He knows what's best for us. I hope people allow the heart of a bereaved mother room to grieve and I hope people don't expect us to be strong all the time. I hope that women know that it truly and honestly gets better and that we will learn a lot about ourselves along the way. I hope we remember that God would not have allowed this to happen if He knew we couldn't bare it. I hope that mothers remember that although our children may have been stillbirths, they were still born and are very much still loved.
Now that's a realistic hope.
1 Thessalonians 4: 13-14
But I do not want you to be ignorant, brethren, concerning those who have fallen asleep, lest you sorrow as others who have no hope. For if we believe that Jesus died and rose again, even so God will bring with Him those who sleep in Jesus.I hope this helps.
I love you Cam so much.
Love Always,
Mommy
Friday, August 16, 2013
Thank You
Dear Cameron,
Thank you.
Thank you for everything you have taught me and the things you continue to teach me. I have learned more about myself from you in 25 weeks than I have in 23 years.
Cameron, thank you for showing me what love is; what the love for my child is.
My love is kind, sacrificing, and selfless. My love is unconditional. You revealed to me the true meaning of a mother's love, how to get to it, and how to express it. You helped me open my heart in a way I never imagined, say things I never imagined saying, and do things without thinking twice. Thank you Cam for allowing me to put you first, to put your needs before my own. Thank you for allowing me to alter my life willingly in a way that would be pleasing and wonderful for you. Thank you for reminding me that you are loved, even now, in your "absence". And thank you for loving me back.
Thank you Cameron for teaching me patience.
Thank you for helping me take one day at a time, enjoying the simple things and looking forward to the days ahead. Thank you for revealing to me the value of even the smallest moments such as hearing your heart beat for the first time, buying your very first "I love mommy" onesie, hour long naps with you, and feeling your strong kicks and movements daily. Thank you for that and thank you for reminding me to never take that for granted. Thank you for revealing to me the value of a life.
Cam, thank you for teaching me compassion.
Thank you for the understanding I have gained. The compassion and understanding I have for other mothers and fathers who are experiencing the same aching pain I am experiencing. Thank you for that. Thank you for helping me to never look at a young child or a baby the same way ever again. Never again will I ever look at a child crying the same way. I will never complain about a baby's cries. Instead, I will imagine how yours would have sounded. Thank you for this compassionate spirit. It was not given in vain.
Thank you Cameron for drawing me closer to God.
Thank you for reminding me that even when my back is up against the wall, to continue to trust God. Thank you for letting me know the end is better, greater and more powerful than the beginning. Thank you for being my testimony. Thank you Cam for reminding me that God is the giver of life. It is only because of God that you were ever here. That it was only because of Him that I knew you, I mean, know you Cameron. Thank you for helping me seek out the Lord in the midst of my storm; in the midst of the hardest trial I am going through in my life. To continue to count on God, to continue to trust God. Thank you for letting me know I'm not alone. Thank you for reminding me that although this path, this journey, may seem hard, I am strong enough to bare it and to never dismiss God if I come to a road block along the way. Thank you Cameron for reminding me that God and you never left me; that God continues to keep me. That I am safe in his hands and that you are safe in his arms.
I can't wait to see you again baby.
I love you.
Love Always,
Mommy
Thank you.
Thank you for everything you have taught me and the things you continue to teach me. I have learned more about myself from you in 25 weeks than I have in 23 years.
Cameron, thank you for showing me what love is; what the love for my child is.
My love is kind, sacrificing, and selfless. My love is unconditional. You revealed to me the true meaning of a mother's love, how to get to it, and how to express it. You helped me open my heart in a way I never imagined, say things I never imagined saying, and do things without thinking twice. Thank you Cam for allowing me to put you first, to put your needs before my own. Thank you for allowing me to alter my life willingly in a way that would be pleasing and wonderful for you. Thank you for reminding me that you are loved, even now, in your "absence". And thank you for loving me back.
Thank you Cameron for teaching me patience.
Thank you for helping me take one day at a time, enjoying the simple things and looking forward to the days ahead. Thank you for revealing to me the value of even the smallest moments such as hearing your heart beat for the first time, buying your very first "I love mommy" onesie, hour long naps with you, and feeling your strong kicks and movements daily. Thank you for that and thank you for reminding me to never take that for granted. Thank you for revealing to me the value of a life.
Cam, thank you for teaching me compassion.
Thank you for the understanding I have gained. The compassion and understanding I have for other mothers and fathers who are experiencing the same aching pain I am experiencing. Thank you for that. Thank you for helping me to never look at a young child or a baby the same way ever again. Never again will I ever look at a child crying the same way. I will never complain about a baby's cries. Instead, I will imagine how yours would have sounded. Thank you for this compassionate spirit. It was not given in vain.
Thank you Cameron for drawing me closer to God.
Thank you for reminding me that even when my back is up against the wall, to continue to trust God. Thank you for letting me know the end is better, greater and more powerful than the beginning. Thank you for being my testimony. Thank you Cam for reminding me that God is the giver of life. It is only because of God that you were ever here. That it was only because of Him that I knew you, I mean, know you Cameron. Thank you for helping me seek out the Lord in the midst of my storm; in the midst of the hardest trial I am going through in my life. To continue to count on God, to continue to trust God. Thank you for letting me know I'm not alone. Thank you for reminding me that although this path, this journey, may seem hard, I am strong enough to bare it and to never dismiss God if I come to a road block along the way. Thank you Cameron for reminding me that God and you never left me; that God continues to keep me. That I am safe in his hands and that you are safe in his arms.
I'm thankful for the time I spent with you, getting to know you. It was the greatest 25 weeks of my life. I wouldn't trade that in for anything. I'm proud to be your mother. It was, I mean is, truly an honor. I'm glad God saw that I am the best candidate for you. I would do it all over again, the same way, a million times more if asked.
You were, I mean, you are worth it.I can't wait to see you again baby.
I love you.
Love Always,
Mommy
Thursday, August 15, 2013
In an Angry Place
Dear Cameron,
I miss you. I just want to see your precious face again.
I've been at a strange place in my grief for the past couple of weeks; anger. I'm so on edge. Things, no matter the magnitude, set me off.
This anger is different. It's not like getting upset for a moment or two just because something doesn't go your way, it's more like... just being angry in general for no reason. I find myself taking my anger out on those closest to me. It's not fair to them, but I can't help it. I try to watch what I say and how I say it, but sometimes the words just come spilling out.
I'm a loose cannon.
I feel that some people are insensitive to my emotions and that adds to my anger even more. Because they don't understand. I hate that the people closest to me don't understand, and that makes me angry. But I don't want them to understand because I wouldn't want any of them to go through what I'm going through. I don't want to see any of my friends say goodbye to their child. And because of that, they may never understand the heartache of a bereave parent. I hope that makes sense.
All the cliche lines:
I don't know.
My thoughts are everywhere. I want the anger to go away. I don't like this feeling. It's hard to understand anger. He shows up at random moments and makes me look selfish. Anger doesn't go away after I've screamed it out, hit a pillow, slammed a door, or cried my eyes out. He feeds off that. I hear his evil witch-like laugh sometimes after I've tried to get rid of him. It's like he's tormenting me. How am I suppose to deal with anger if I don't understand him? Why won't he leave me alone?
Anger makes me feel ungrateful, he makes me feel like I'm the bad guy, like I did this to myself. Sometimes I even get angry with myself. Anger doesn't care how I make other people feel. I think that's why I've separated myself from my family and friends. I'm tired of hurting people's feelings and jeopardizing my character.
I don't want to be an angry person, but you're gone Cam, and that makes me angry. I get angry that other babies who were born at 25 weeks have the chance to live, but you didn't. Why you? Why not me. Why couldn't it be me instead? I wish it were me. It angers me that you had to be the one to go and not me. I would have gladly and willingly given up my life for yours. I would trade places with you in a heartbeat. You're worth it baby.
The Bible says in Ephesians 4:26-27
I am angry Cam, and in this anger I have sinned. With my thoughts and with my words. I have given the devil a place. I have let him in, but it's so hard to keep him out. In my anger I have lost control and compromised
my relationship with my family and my friends.
I hope that I will find ways to grab hold of this anger by the throat and take it head on. I hope I'm able to dig deep and find the strength to push through this anger and regain control. This is not like me. I want to understand my anger and deal with it in a healthy way.
I hope I'm not letting you down, but I'm trying my best Cameron.
I love you sweetheart.
Love Always,
Mommy
I miss you. I just want to see your precious face again.
I've been at a strange place in my grief for the past couple of weeks; anger. I'm so on edge. Things, no matter the magnitude, set me off.
This anger is different. It's not like getting upset for a moment or two just because something doesn't go your way, it's more like... just being angry in general for no reason. I find myself taking my anger out on those closest to me. It's not fair to them, but I can't help it. I try to watch what I say and how I say it, but sometimes the words just come spilling out.
I'm a loose cannon.
I feel that some people are insensitive to my emotions and that adds to my anger even more. Because they don't understand. I hate that the people closest to me don't understand, and that makes me angry. But I don't want them to understand because I wouldn't want any of them to go through what I'm going through. I don't want to see any of my friends say goodbye to their child. And because of that, they may never understand the heartache of a bereave parent. I hope that makes sense.
All the cliche lines:
He was too good for earth.They make me angry also. People never know what to say, but that's because they haven't been here. I would think that after hearing these words for nearly three months, I would have gotten used to it by now. Some days those cliche lines still sting as badly as they did when they were said to me days after you were gone.
You'll have more.
He's in better place.
I don't know.
My thoughts are everywhere. I want the anger to go away. I don't like this feeling. It's hard to understand anger. He shows up at random moments and makes me look selfish. Anger doesn't go away after I've screamed it out, hit a pillow, slammed a door, or cried my eyes out. He feeds off that. I hear his evil witch-like laugh sometimes after I've tried to get rid of him. It's like he's tormenting me. How am I suppose to deal with anger if I don't understand him? Why won't he leave me alone?
Anger makes me feel ungrateful, he makes me feel like I'm the bad guy, like I did this to myself. Sometimes I even get angry with myself. Anger doesn't care how I make other people feel. I think that's why I've separated myself from my family and friends. I'm tired of hurting people's feelings and jeopardizing my character.
I don't want to be an angry person, but you're gone Cam, and that makes me angry. I get angry that other babies who were born at 25 weeks have the chance to live, but you didn't. Why you? Why not me. Why couldn't it be me instead? I wish it were me. It angers me that you had to be the one to go and not me. I would have gladly and willingly given up my life for yours. I would trade places with you in a heartbeat. You're worth it baby.
The Bible says in Ephesians 4:26-27
Be angry, and do not sin: do not let the sun go down on your wrath, nor give place to the devil.
I am angry Cam, and in this anger I have sinned. With my thoughts and with my words. I have given the devil a place. I have let him in, but it's so hard to keep him out. In my anger I have lost control and compromised
my relationship with my family and my friends.
I hope that I will find ways to grab hold of this anger by the throat and take it head on. I hope I'm able to dig deep and find the strength to push through this anger and regain control. This is not like me. I want to understand my anger and deal with it in a healthy way.
I hope I'm not letting you down, but I'm trying my best Cameron.
I love you sweetheart.
Love Always,
Mommy
Friday, August 9, 2013
I am Still Beautiful
Dear Cameron,
I read a blog from another mother who experienced a stillbirth nearly a year ago. She does a lot of grief projects that help remind her, and other mothers and fathers alike, that this path can be conquered head on.
She said one thing in her blog that really stood out to me:
First, I bought a ton of make-up. I guess to hide behind a mask. I think the reason I wear a lot of make-up is to cover my "pain", that way I won't look as miserable as I feel some days. I'm sure the only person I'm fooling is myself, or maybe I am fooling others. I don't know. I don't like to leave the house without having it on. I don't feel complete without my make-up on. I'm not sure if it's a good or bad thing.
I've also went to the spa three time last month. I found myself going on days when the anxiety was too much to bare. It was my me day. Although it was a little expensive, it was a good way help me relax and take care of myself.
I've also invested my energy into doing positive things, such as writing, going to support groups, and working on a foundation for you to help support a nonprofit I like.
Lastly, I've been reading my Bible. Even though my walk with Christ is not where I would like it to be, I can't help but to pull my Bible out sometimes and just begin to read. It gives me a piece that reminds me that you're ok and that I am still loved. I know I will see you again ONLY if I live a life honorable to God.
If that is the only way I'll see you're sweet face again, I don't mind.
I guess what I'm trying to say is my version of "remember that you are beautiful" is just simply being beautiful and feeling beautiful, and most importantly, knowing that I am still loved. Taking care of myself, first, both physically, emotionally, and spiritually helps remind me of such beauty that I know still exists.
Love Always,
Mommy
I read a blog from another mother who experienced a stillbirth nearly a year ago. She does a lot of grief projects that help remind her, and other mothers and fathers alike, that this path can be conquered head on.
She said one thing in her blog that really stood out to me:
Remember that you are beautiful.I like that. I realized that after I lost you, I began to take better care of myself. I didn't understand why at first, but now I do.
First, I bought a ton of make-up. I guess to hide behind a mask. I think the reason I wear a lot of make-up is to cover my "pain", that way I won't look as miserable as I feel some days. I'm sure the only person I'm fooling is myself, or maybe I am fooling others. I don't know. I don't like to leave the house without having it on. I don't feel complete without my make-up on. I'm not sure if it's a good or bad thing.
I've also went to the spa three time last month. I found myself going on days when the anxiety was too much to bare. It was my me day. Although it was a little expensive, it was a good way help me relax and take care of myself.
I've also invested my energy into doing positive things, such as writing, going to support groups, and working on a foundation for you to help support a nonprofit I like.
Lastly, I've been reading my Bible. Even though my walk with Christ is not where I would like it to be, I can't help but to pull my Bible out sometimes and just begin to read. It gives me a piece that reminds me that you're ok and that I am still loved. I know I will see you again ONLY if I live a life honorable to God.
If that is the only way I'll see you're sweet face again, I don't mind.
I guess what I'm trying to say is my version of "remember that you are beautiful" is just simply being beautiful and feeling beautiful, and most importantly, knowing that I am still loved. Taking care of myself, first, both physically, emotionally, and spiritually helps remind me of such beauty that I know still exists.
Love Always,
Mommy
Wednesday, August 7, 2013
A Heart Stopped...
Dear Cameron,
"What brings you in today?" The lady at the front desk of the maternity department asked me as if she had rehearsed that line all night.
"My son hasn't moved all morning."
She had so much love in her eyes.
I updated my information in their system and was asked to have a seat. It was about noon and I was the only one in the waiting room. Holy Cross Hospital has a beautiful waiting room. It's so welcoming, I kind of didn't mind waiting. Almost as soon as I had a seat next to my mother, the doors opened up and I was called to come to the back.
I remember walking down triage to the room nearly at the end of the small hallway, room three. I passed many rooms only guarded by a shower-like curtain. Because expecting mothers weren't mean't to stay there long, there was no need for a door. I heard that sound as I walked. Those beautiful heartbeats, that pleasant symphony of heartbeats from other babies who had not yet entered the world. That sound of wind moving between trees as the babies moved suddenly in the womb. The sound of slight moans from their mother's followed almost directly after.
"Please undress and place on this robe."
I did as she said when she left the room.
The same nurse returned with a contraction monitor and heart monitor. She put the cold gel to my stomach and then the heart monitor on after.
She moved the heart monitor across my stomach, searching for your heartbeat, searching for life.
...silence.
She left out the room saying she would be right back. I tried to be strong and hold in the tears, but I couldn't. I wept quietly thinking to myself "maybe the machine is broke."
My mother, sitting in the corner looking out the window, watched as the rain drops rolled from top to bottom.
She returned, the same nurse still, but this time she wasn't alone. Another nurse, or doctor, I can't remember, came in smiling and introduced herself. She said something along the lines of "lets use this machine, it's a little more powerful."
Silence still echoed my little room.
Other nurses and doctors crowded my small room almost on cue. This time with an ultrasound machine.
I began to cry again, this time a little harder. Almost like a fearful cry that I tried to hold in.
My mother got up from her seat and sat on the bed and held my hand.
I couldn't look while they performed the ultrasound. I turned away placing my head in my mother's arms. I could feel them, the doctors, pressing hard with the prob searching for life; your life Cam.
They didn't have to say it, I already knew.
My mother hugged me tighter and I knew she knew also.
Another nurse, the one performing the ultrasound, an Asian one, softly called my name.
I looked at her as she said with so much compassion..
She continued.
I felt like I needed to throw up.
I wanted to die instantly.
More nurses flooded in the room as they moved the machine out.
I wanted to stop crying; stop screaming that awful scream, but I couldn't.
I felt like I couldn't breathe and went to stand up to catch my breath. The nurses told me not to. I understood why they said that.
I instantly fell to the floor. My legs felt like sand. They felt lifeless.
The nurse, I don't remember which one, lifted me off the floor and into her arms. She hugged me so tightly. She whispered sweet soothing "shhh's" in my ear saying "it's going to be ok" and "it's ok to cry".
She did it the same way I would've done to you Cameron if you had hurt yourself or were upset about something.
Two hearts stopped that day, June 7, 2013.
My mother gathered up my belongings as I was helped over to the wheelchair; hurt, broken, afraid and lost. I placed my head in my hands, crying still, as they wheeled me out of triage.
Leaving behind that beautiful sound, that beautiful symphony of heartbeats I would never hear again.
Love Always,
Mommy
"What brings you in today?" The lady at the front desk of the maternity department asked me as if she had rehearsed that line all night.
"My son hasn't moved all morning."
She had so much love in her eyes.
I updated my information in their system and was asked to have a seat. It was about noon and I was the only one in the waiting room. Holy Cross Hospital has a beautiful waiting room. It's so welcoming, I kind of didn't mind waiting. Almost as soon as I had a seat next to my mother, the doors opened up and I was called to come to the back.
I remember walking down triage to the room nearly at the end of the small hallway, room three. I passed many rooms only guarded by a shower-like curtain. Because expecting mothers weren't mean't to stay there long, there was no need for a door. I heard that sound as I walked. Those beautiful heartbeats, that pleasant symphony of heartbeats from other babies who had not yet entered the world. That sound of wind moving between trees as the babies moved suddenly in the womb. The sound of slight moans from their mother's followed almost directly after.
"Please undress and place on this robe."
I did as she said when she left the room.
The same nurse returned with a contraction monitor and heart monitor. She put the cold gel to my stomach and then the heart monitor on after.
She moved the heart monitor across my stomach, searching for your heartbeat, searching for life.
...silence.
She left out the room saying she would be right back. I tried to be strong and hold in the tears, but I couldn't. I wept quietly thinking to myself "maybe the machine is broke."
My mother, sitting in the corner looking out the window, watched as the rain drops rolled from top to bottom.
She returned, the same nurse still, but this time she wasn't alone. Another nurse, or doctor, I can't remember, came in smiling and introduced herself. She said something along the lines of "lets use this machine, it's a little more powerful."
Silence still echoed my little room.
Other nurses and doctors crowded my small room almost on cue. This time with an ultrasound machine.
I began to cry again, this time a little harder. Almost like a fearful cry that I tried to hold in.
My mother got up from her seat and sat on the bed and held my hand.
I couldn't look while they performed the ultrasound. I turned away placing my head in my mother's arms. I could feel them, the doctors, pressing hard with the prob searching for life; your life Cam.
They didn't have to say it, I already knew.
My mother hugged me tighter and I knew she knew also.
Another nurse, the one performing the ultrasound, an Asian one, softly called my name.
I looked at her as she said with so much compassion..
"I know you already know this..."I didn't let her finish. She was forced to stop speaking by a loud and terrifying wail I produced. It was a scream and a cry mixed.
She continued.
"I'm so sorry..."I hurt, physically. It was as if someone had ripped my beating heart right out from my chest suddenly.
I felt like I needed to throw up.
I wanted to die instantly.
More nurses flooded in the room as they moved the machine out.
I wanted to stop crying; stop screaming that awful scream, but I couldn't.
I felt like I couldn't breathe and went to stand up to catch my breath. The nurses told me not to. I understood why they said that.
I instantly fell to the floor. My legs felt like sand. They felt lifeless.
The nurse, I don't remember which one, lifted me off the floor and into her arms. She hugged me so tightly. She whispered sweet soothing "shhh's" in my ear saying "it's going to be ok" and "it's ok to cry".
She did it the same way I would've done to you Cameron if you had hurt yourself or were upset about something.
Two hearts stopped that day, June 7, 2013.
My mother gathered up my belongings as I was helped over to the wheelchair; hurt, broken, afraid and lost. I placed my head in my hands, crying still, as they wheeled me out of triage.
Leaving behind that beautiful sound, that beautiful symphony of heartbeats I would never hear again.
You, Cameron David Miller. My beautiful baby boy, my son, was now gone.
Love Always,
Mommy
Tuesday, August 6, 2013
A Heart Still Beating
Dear Cameron,
I miss you sweetheart. I thought about you so much today. It was so hard to peel myself off the sheets and out the bed this morning. I was scheduled to go to lunch with a friend and almost didn't make it. I almost allowed that devil to keep me in my grief.
Two months ago today, I contemplated going to the hospital. I remember not feeling you move as much while I was at work, but I was comforted by the sound of your heartbeat that same night. I loved listening to your heartbeat. It was always so strong. I remember it sounding like a fast horse galloping. I was sure your were going to be a runner, like me, when you got older. Your Aunt Tyra cried the first time she heard your heartbeat. She was such a sucker for you. She loved you so much baby.
I remember feeling your last "high five" about 10:20 pm. It was shortly after I heard your heartbeat.
I like to think of it as you telling me "see you later" or "I love you". I think it was your way of comforting me before I went to bed; letting me know you were, I mean, are ok.
It was so soothing hearing your heartbeat, hearing you move around. Another parent compared hearing a baby move suddenly, in the sack, to a strong wind between trees. It was so beautiful to know that life lived inside of me. That I was chosen to be your mother. I loved hearing the sound of your heart, it was one of the two indications that you were alive, that you lived.
I love you so much Cam. As sad as June 6, 2013 is now, I remember being so happy then. I remember being comforted by you, loved by you on that very day.
I wonder if I had gone to the hospital that night would it have made the outcome any different. Would you still be here? Could they have saved you? Would they have detected something was wrong? Would they have any answers?
These questions drive me insane. I'll stop asking them.
I can hear your voice in the back of my mind telling me you're ok and to stop worrying about you. I try not to, but you're out of my physical reach! and I miss that!
I miss carrying you around at work, to the movies, out to eat. I miss poking you and you kicking back. I loved all the pain I was in: the swollen feet, aching back, and pressure on my bladder. I never complained about the pain while I was pregnant because it reminded me that it was real. It hurt, of course, but I never wished it would go away or subside. I enjoyed it honey, I enjoyed you. They make great stories now.
Wonderful memories.
Baby, you are so loved, even now. Even in the midst of this grief.
I will continue to hold on to the memory of your beating heart. That sound, that beautiful symphony is just as loud and comforting today as it was two months ago.
I love you baby.
Love Always,
Mommy
I miss you sweetheart. I thought about you so much today. It was so hard to peel myself off the sheets and out the bed this morning. I was scheduled to go to lunch with a friend and almost didn't make it. I almost allowed that devil to keep me in my grief.
Two months ago today, I contemplated going to the hospital. I remember not feeling you move as much while I was at work, but I was comforted by the sound of your heartbeat that same night. I loved listening to your heartbeat. It was always so strong. I remember it sounding like a fast horse galloping. I was sure your were going to be a runner, like me, when you got older. Your Aunt Tyra cried the first time she heard your heartbeat. She was such a sucker for you. She loved you so much baby.
I remember feeling your last "high five" about 10:20 pm. It was shortly after I heard your heartbeat.
I like to think of it as you telling me "see you later" or "I love you". I think it was your way of comforting me before I went to bed; letting me know you were, I mean, are ok.
I never would have imagined it would be my last time feeling your movements.
 |
I love you so much Cam. As sad as June 6, 2013 is now, I remember being so happy then. I remember being comforted by you, loved by you on that very day.
I wonder if I had gone to the hospital that night would it have made the outcome any different. Would you still be here? Could they have saved you? Would they have detected something was wrong? Would they have any answers?
These questions drive me insane. I'll stop asking them.
I can hear your voice in the back of my mind telling me you're ok and to stop worrying about you. I try not to, but you're out of my physical reach! and I miss that!
I miss carrying you around at work, to the movies, out to eat. I miss poking you and you kicking back. I loved all the pain I was in: the swollen feet, aching back, and pressure on my bladder. I never complained about the pain while I was pregnant because it reminded me that it was real. It hurt, of course, but I never wished it would go away or subside. I enjoyed it honey, I enjoyed you. They make great stories now.
Wonderful memories.
Baby, you are so loved, even now. Even in the midst of this grief.
I will continue to hold on to the memory of your beating heart. That sound, that beautiful symphony is just as loud and comforting today as it was two months ago.
I love you baby.
Love Always,
Mommy
Monday, August 5, 2013
Back to Reality
Dear Cameron,
I love you and I really miss you.
When I found out I was pregnant with you, I was terrified. I was afraid I would become a statistic. That I wouldn't be able to finish school, have to live off government assistance for the rest of my life, live with my parents and be stuck at my current job forever, waiting tables. Some people compared my accomplishments to your birth father's. They compared the two of us in terms of education and job situations. They put him on this high pedal stool as if he was doing THAT much better than me.
I was constantly reminded how hard it is to raise a child: the expenses, the attention, dedication and sacrifice. I felt defeated and ashamed. Mainly defeated.
One night, your birth father and I went to talk with my Auntie. She really encouraged me. She reminded me what type of person I was, I mean, I am: strong willed, determined, and a go getter. If I want it badly enough, I find a way to make it happen.
The most powerful words she spoke to me, to us, that night with the most stern voice and serious look was
I worked two jobs, went to school full time, and was getting more tired, and bigger, as the weeks went on, but I finished my Spring 2013 semester with a strong 3.5.
She was right and I was out to prove my doubters wrong.
After I became further along, I made the decision to take the upcoming Fall 2013 semester off. Since your due date was so close to the start of school, I did not want to risk it. I loved you too much and wanted to get to know you by taking some time off from everything and stay with you for as long as I could.
One of the most difficult things to do after your stillbirth is to keep living. It's difficult some days to see that everyone else kept living their lives. The garbageman still comes every Monday and Thursday, my neighbor still leaves for work around 7:30 am, and the kids down the street are still being rushed by their parents to hurry in the car so they will be on time for camp.
Every one's lives kept going on. Was mine suppose to also?
I didn't want to move on. I didn't want to go back to school. I was so afraid that I wasn't ready or I needed more time. Honestly, I'm not sure what I was afraid of. I just didn't want to.
It was then when I sat back and remembered who I am, where I come from, and how I got here. There has never been any challenge too great for me to conquer.
My Auntie's words still encourage me today as much as they did then.
As reluctant as I was, I met with my adviser and registered for classes. It was on July 1, 2013 when I learned I only have three semesters left. My projected graduation date is Fall 2014.
My adviser and I talked today about my goals and how important it is to be a light and an example for others out there who may feel hopeless. For those who may feel so discouraged, defeated, and hurt after such a tragedy. How it's ok to keep living, but not forgetting.
I was looking forward to making more accomplishments with you in my arms or by my side. I couldn't wait to get my degree and have you hold it with me. I was so excited for us to be graduating eventually.
I never had any doubt that I would finish school, it was more of a matter of when I would finish. Especially since I would have had you with me.
But I guess I will still have you with me on that day. You will still be holding my degree with me and we will still be graduating together.
I love you so much and I know that even if you were here physically, your existence would not have stopped me from reaching my goals; you, Cameron, are my reason to keep going.
I promise to live a life that will make you proud.
I will start with finishing these last three semesters for you.
I love you honey, so much.
Love Always,
Mommy
I love you and I really miss you.
When I found out I was pregnant with you, I was terrified. I was afraid I would become a statistic. That I wouldn't be able to finish school, have to live off government assistance for the rest of my life, live with my parents and be stuck at my current job forever, waiting tables. Some people compared my accomplishments to your birth father's. They compared the two of us in terms of education and job situations. They put him on this high pedal stool as if he was doing THAT much better than me.
I was constantly reminded how hard it is to raise a child: the expenses, the attention, dedication and sacrifice. I felt defeated and ashamed. Mainly defeated.
One night, your birth father and I went to talk with my Auntie. She really encouraged me. She reminded me what type of person I was, I mean, I am: strong willed, determined, and a go getter. If I want it badly enough, I find a way to make it happen.
The most powerful words she spoke to me, to us, that night with the most stern voice and serious look was
"Domonique, people have done it with far less than what the both of you have...this child will not suffer or go without..."
I worked two jobs, went to school full time, and was getting more tired, and bigger, as the weeks went on, but I finished my Spring 2013 semester with a strong 3.5.
She was right and I was out to prove my doubters wrong.
After I became further along, I made the decision to take the upcoming Fall 2013 semester off. Since your due date was so close to the start of school, I did not want to risk it. I loved you too much and wanted to get to know you by taking some time off from everything and stay with you for as long as I could.
One of the most difficult things to do after your stillbirth is to keep living. It's difficult some days to see that everyone else kept living their lives. The garbageman still comes every Monday and Thursday, my neighbor still leaves for work around 7:30 am, and the kids down the street are still being rushed by their parents to hurry in the car so they will be on time for camp.
Every one's lives kept going on. Was mine suppose to also?
I didn't want to move on. I didn't want to go back to school. I was so afraid that I wasn't ready or I needed more time. Honestly, I'm not sure what I was afraid of. I just didn't want to.
It was then when I sat back and remembered who I am, where I come from, and how I got here. There has never been any challenge too great for me to conquer.
My Auntie's words still encourage me today as much as they did then.
As reluctant as I was, I met with my adviser and registered for classes. It was on July 1, 2013 when I learned I only have three semesters left. My projected graduation date is Fall 2014.
My adviser and I talked today about my goals and how important it is to be a light and an example for others out there who may feel hopeless. For those who may feel so discouraged, defeated, and hurt after such a tragedy. How it's ok to keep living, but not forgetting.
I was looking forward to making more accomplishments with you in my arms or by my side. I couldn't wait to get my degree and have you hold it with me. I was so excited for us to be graduating eventually.
I never had any doubt that I would finish school, it was more of a matter of when I would finish. Especially since I would have had you with me.
But I guess I will still have you with me on that day. You will still be holding my degree with me and we will still be graduating together.
I love you so much and I know that even if you were here physically, your existence would not have stopped me from reaching my goals; you, Cameron, are my reason to keep going.
I promise to live a life that will make you proud.
I will start with finishing these last three semesters for you.
I love you honey, so much.
Love Always,
Mommy
Sunday, August 4, 2013
Sharing Sacred Memories
Dear Cameron,
I love you so much sweetheart. I find myself trying to keep busy. I guess that's a part of grieving. No matter what I do though, your memory never escapes me. I love thinking of you though. I wonder about the conversations you have with Jesus. Sometimes I like to think that you talk about me as much as I think about you.
The other day, a close friend of mine came over. I hadn't seen her in a while, but we always kept in touch. We caught up, laughed and talked about you of course.
There were times during the conversation where I fought back tears. There were times when I smiled a motherly smile. The kind of smile where you feel your heart soften and you have an "awww" moment. There were times I cried and smiled at the same time. But she didn't mind.
She asked how you looked; I began to smile again. This time much bigger. I simply told her to imagine me with a smaller face and in the body of a newborn baby. She smiled too.
As the conversation about you became more intense, I found myself getting my box, I mean, your box of memories. I have all the passionate letters I wrote to you, your pictures, your blanket, flowers, unread sympathy cards, poems, and things alike.
Your box hadn't been opened in weeks. Every time I open your box, I always feel a different emotion. This time I felt happiness mixed with sadness. I'm not sure what anyone would call that. I was happy to be opening your box, your memories, and most of all sharing them with someone other than myself, but I was sad to be opening your box of memories. If that makes sense.
I showed her my favorite picture of you. The picture that was taken moments after you were born still. She said
...and you did.
Your eyes are, I mean, were so beautiful Cam.
I showed her the program from your memorial and I watched as she read the heartfelt letter I wrote to you that was displayed on the back of the program. Her eyes became glossy. It was hard to watch.
I don't mean to make people upset when they ask about you. I think that's why I fight back tears. I try to make people see how strong I am. So they don't get so upset. I don't know.
I guess what I'm trying to say is sharing the tangible parts of your memory for the first time was very...refreshing. Although it was hard sharing with someone who has never experienced this tragedy, it was nice sharing a piece of you with someone who is close to me. It was beautiful seeing someone look at you and know that they wouldn't judge or compare you to other babies. It made me feel good hearing someone say how beautiful you are, I mean, were and know they really meant it.
I loved that moment I shared with her. And I think it helped me. I think opening your box with someone else helped me know it's ok and I'm not alone. It showed me that the weight of the top won't be as heavy if someone is there to help my lift it. And that it's ok to sometimes invite someone in to share these sacred memories.
I love you Cam.
Love Always,
Mommy
I love you so much sweetheart. I find myself trying to keep busy. I guess that's a part of grieving. No matter what I do though, your memory never escapes me. I love thinking of you though. I wonder about the conversations you have with Jesus. Sometimes I like to think that you talk about me as much as I think about you.
The other day, a close friend of mine came over. I hadn't seen her in a while, but we always kept in touch. We caught up, laughed and talked about you of course.
There were times during the conversation where I fought back tears. There were times when I smiled a motherly smile. The kind of smile where you feel your heart soften and you have an "awww" moment. There were times I cried and smiled at the same time. But she didn't mind.
She asked how you looked; I began to smile again. This time much bigger. I simply told her to imagine me with a smaller face and in the body of a newborn baby. She smiled too.
As the conversation about you became more intense, I found myself getting my box, I mean, your box of memories. I have all the passionate letters I wrote to you, your pictures, your blanket, flowers, unread sympathy cards, poems, and things alike.
Your box hadn't been opened in weeks. Every time I open your box, I always feel a different emotion. This time I felt happiness mixed with sadness. I'm not sure what anyone would call that. I was happy to be opening your box, your memories, and most of all sharing them with someone other than myself, but I was sad to be opening your box of memories. If that makes sense.
I showed her my favorite picture of you. The picture that was taken moments after you were born still. She said
"He has your eyes.."
...and you did.
Your eyes are, I mean, were so beautiful Cam.
I showed her the program from your memorial and I watched as she read the heartfelt letter I wrote to you that was displayed on the back of the program. Her eyes became glossy. It was hard to watch.
I don't mean to make people upset when they ask about you. I think that's why I fight back tears. I try to make people see how strong I am. So they don't get so upset. I don't know.
I guess what I'm trying to say is sharing the tangible parts of your memory for the first time was very...refreshing. Although it was hard sharing with someone who has never experienced this tragedy, it was nice sharing a piece of you with someone who is close to me. It was beautiful seeing someone look at you and know that they wouldn't judge or compare you to other babies. It made me feel good hearing someone say how beautiful you are, I mean, were and know they really meant it.
I loved that moment I shared with her. And I think it helped me. I think opening your box with someone else helped me know it's ok and I'm not alone. It showed me that the weight of the top won't be as heavy if someone is there to help my lift it. And that it's ok to sometimes invite someone in to share these sacred memories.
I love you Cam.
Love Always,
Mommy
Friday, August 2, 2013
Comfort for a Friend
Dear Cameron,
I love you so much. Today was a good day. I have more good days than bad days. Although I have more good days, now, they still aren't as good as the good days before your passing. I think those days were my best days. Maybe I'll have more best days, but in a different way; a different form.
I recently learned of another young mother, whom I'm familiar with, just experienced this disheartening tragedy also. I remember, when being told about her. I felt my heart literally sinking. I was taken back to that place again. That triage room where endless nurses prepared to tell me the news I thought I had already braced myself for. My heart hurt for her; it hurt with her's.
I found myself reaching out to her and letting her know that if she ever wanted to talk, pray, and ask questions that only mother's of angels would be able to relate to, I would be there for her to do so. She thanked me and I let her grieve.
I took myself back to that day; your day Cam. I remember thinking that I was the only one. That no one else shared my pain or my story. That I would have to go the rest of my days alone. I don't want my friend to think the way I did. I don't want her to even peak into that miserable place. I later remember getting a phone call from a woman I've never met or knew of, but she knew about me. She shared my story, she encouraged me and, most importantly, she made me feel less lonely. She made me laugh and remember the good times I had with you Cam. She was the glimmer of strength I was (and still am) able to pull from. I look at her and think "if she can do it, I can do it".
I want to be that for my friend. I want to let her know that it's ok to cry, it's ok to remember her beautiful son's memories. I want to be there for her when she doesn't understand and when she needs someone to help pull her from that terrible place that the devil may try to take her to. I also want to let her know that there are something that I cannot do. There are ways in which I cannot help her. There are words that I cannot say that will ever be comforting enough for her on those days when she feels like giving up. That comfort comes from other places that only she will be able to seek.
She said to me the other day "...you're such an inspiration. You don't let it get you down at all."
Truth is, I do feel down and I have my moments, but I refuse to stay there. I refuse to let that devil have his way. I WILL NOT give him the pleasure.
The spiritual warfare is so real Cameron. I battle it everyday. I'm still learning how to use my new weapons. But I think of Jeremiah 29:11
This means that God already knows. He already has it planned out for my good; for our good. Even though my thoughts are not His thoughts, and I cannot see the full plan right now, I have to continue to trust Him and know that during this tragedy, God is still God and He never left His thrown. He is still in control.
I think that's why I 'don't let it get me down', or maybe I do, but I mask it. I don't know. Either way, I know that I now have a true reason to get my life together. I now have a reason to live a life honorable towards God, a life to be proud of. That reason is you Cameron. Me living a righteous life is the only way we will be together again. This time honey it's for eternity...
Sweetheart, I love you so much. I miss you Cammy.
Love Always,
Mommy
I love you so much. Today was a good day. I have more good days than bad days. Although I have more good days, now, they still aren't as good as the good days before your passing. I think those days were my best days. Maybe I'll have more best days, but in a different way; a different form.
I recently learned of another young mother, whom I'm familiar with, just experienced this disheartening tragedy also. I remember, when being told about her. I felt my heart literally sinking. I was taken back to that place again. That triage room where endless nurses prepared to tell me the news I thought I had already braced myself for. My heart hurt for her; it hurt with her's.
I found myself reaching out to her and letting her know that if she ever wanted to talk, pray, and ask questions that only mother's of angels would be able to relate to, I would be there for her to do so. She thanked me and I let her grieve.
I took myself back to that day; your day Cam. I remember thinking that I was the only one. That no one else shared my pain or my story. That I would have to go the rest of my days alone. I don't want my friend to think the way I did. I don't want her to even peak into that miserable place. I later remember getting a phone call from a woman I've never met or knew of, but she knew about me. She shared my story, she encouraged me and, most importantly, she made me feel less lonely. She made me laugh and remember the good times I had with you Cam. She was the glimmer of strength I was (and still am) able to pull from. I look at her and think "if she can do it, I can do it".
I want to be that for my friend. I want to let her know that it's ok to cry, it's ok to remember her beautiful son's memories. I want to be there for her when she doesn't understand and when she needs someone to help pull her from that terrible place that the devil may try to take her to. I also want to let her know that there are something that I cannot do. There are ways in which I cannot help her. There are words that I cannot say that will ever be comforting enough for her on those days when she feels like giving up. That comfort comes from other places that only she will be able to seek.
She said to me the other day "...you're such an inspiration. You don't let it get you down at all."
Truth is, I do feel down and I have my moments, but I refuse to stay there. I refuse to let that devil have his way. I WILL NOT give him the pleasure.
The spiritual warfare is so real Cameron. I battle it everyday. I'm still learning how to use my new weapons. But I think of Jeremiah 29:11
For I know the thoughts that I think towards you, says the Lord, thoughts of peace and not evil, to give you a future and a hope.
This means that God already knows. He already has it planned out for my good; for our good. Even though my thoughts are not His thoughts, and I cannot see the full plan right now, I have to continue to trust Him and know that during this tragedy, God is still God and He never left His thrown. He is still in control.
I think that's why I 'don't let it get me down', or maybe I do, but I mask it. I don't know. Either way, I know that I now have a true reason to get my life together. I now have a reason to live a life honorable towards God, a life to be proud of. That reason is you Cameron. Me living a righteous life is the only way we will be together again. This time honey it's for eternity...
Sweetheart, I love you so much. I miss you Cammy.
Love Always,
Mommy
Thursday, August 1, 2013
A Conversation About His Birth Father
Dear Cameron,
Today, at work, one of my managers asked about your birth father. He asked how your birth father took "it"; by "it" he means your passing. I love talking about you. I love when people ask about you. I love reliving your bittersweet memory...sometimes. Only the good parts. I guess.
When my manager asked me about your birth father, I had to catch myself. He has said and done so many hurtful things. I try not to bash your birth father, but the thought of him makes me want to wish evil upon his life. I'm working on forgiving him, but it's so hard. However, out of everything your birth father has said and done, nothing compares to June 9, 2013 when he said those hurtful words about you.
I shared with my manager that your birth father and I no longer communicate with each other. We are no longer friends. It's really "funny" because we used to be so close around this time two years ago. I don't know. I shared with my manager that I'm unsure if he loves you; when he had opportunities to confess his love towards you, he never did. I guess a father's love is different from a mothers love. My love is unconditional, sacrificing, selfless. A father's loves is...well I'm not quite sure.
I remember when you began to move for the first time. I was about 18 weeks when other people were able to feel it from the outside. I invited your birth father over to share these moments. He came over the same day I asked. He put his hand up to my stomach and I simply said "Hey Cameron". You instantly responded! It was so beautiful. Your birth father was caught by surprise. All he could do was smile. I told your birth father to say something to you. He softly said, "Hey man", you didn't respond. He said it again, this time a little louder, you gave your birth father a strong "high five" (is what he called it). We both smiled. It was the first moment we both got to share with you and it was so...parent-like.
After reliving that memory just now, I guess I can change my statement to I know your birth father loves you. But he loves you in a different way.
I feel sorry for your birth father Scott some days. I feel sorry for him because the only memories he has of you after your passing are the ones I created for him. He will never know how beautiful you looked in person, how sensitive it was to hold you, how beautiful your precious eyes were, your cute stubby nose, soft skin, big feet, smooth hair and full belly. All your birth father has of you is seven pictures, a footprint, and a wrist band. That's all.
I shared with my manager that your birth father left the hospital early that morning and refused to come back after you were born still to even see you. "I can't see him like that.."; I can sometimes still hear his monotone voice saying those words as I tell the story.
I was so confused. I asked my manager how a "father" could just leave and choose not to hold their child for the first and last time. To give their child their first and last kiss. To force me, your mother, to endure that hurt and pain alone; without the child's father. What kind of father is that? What kind of person is that? "A coward." He replied.
My eyes widened. I was speechless.
The blessing behind this is that you, Cameron, do not see it the same way I do; the same way others see it. You are probably so much more forgiving than I am. You are more compassionate, your are more loving. You are love. All you know is love. I carried and loved you your whole life...and then some. You heard my voice talk to you; sing to you, tell you goodnight. It was me who poked and rubbed you constantly. It was my heartbeat that soothed you to sleep.
The truth is, your birth father was afraid. He was scared to hold you, he was scared to kiss you and hug you...He was afraid to see you. Honestly, I was also, but I knew I could never live with myself always wondering "what if". As hard as it was to look at you, to hold you, kiss you...I'm glad I did. Those are my memories. That's what I hold on to, that's what I cherish. Your birth father's "I wish is had" moments are my "I'm glad I did" moments.
Cameron, you know your birth father's troubles. You know his aches, his pains, his regret, his fears. Comfort your birth father. Reveal yourself to him. Give him a hug. Let him know you're there. Show your birth father the love similar to what I gave to you. Even better, show him the love of Jesus. Intercede for your father when you see him do things he shouldn't do. Intercede for your father when he says things he shouldn't say. Let him know you forgive him Cameron. Don't allow him to forget you baby.
Cam, you know his heart, you know how he really feels. Help your birth father cherish his memories of you. Even the ones I created for him.
Baby I love you so much.
Love Always,
Mommy
I love you so much honey. I thought about you so much today. I think about you everyday. You're just too wonderful to forget.
Today, at work, one of my managers asked about your birth father. He asked how your birth father took "it"; by "it" he means your passing. I love talking about you. I love when people ask about you. I love reliving your bittersweet memory...sometimes. Only the good parts. I guess.
When my manager asked me about your birth father, I had to catch myself. He has said and done so many hurtful things. I try not to bash your birth father, but the thought of him makes me want to wish evil upon his life. I'm working on forgiving him, but it's so hard. However, out of everything your birth father has said and done, nothing compares to June 9, 2013 when he said those hurtful words about you.
I shared with my manager that your birth father and I no longer communicate with each other. We are no longer friends. It's really "funny" because we used to be so close around this time two years ago. I don't know. I shared with my manager that I'm unsure if he loves you; when he had opportunities to confess his love towards you, he never did. I guess a father's love is different from a mothers love. My love is unconditional, sacrificing, selfless. A father's loves is...well I'm not quite sure.
I remember when you began to move for the first time. I was about 18 weeks when other people were able to feel it from the outside. I invited your birth father over to share these moments. He came over the same day I asked. He put his hand up to my stomach and I simply said "Hey Cameron". You instantly responded! It was so beautiful. Your birth father was caught by surprise. All he could do was smile. I told your birth father to say something to you. He softly said, "Hey man", you didn't respond. He said it again, this time a little louder, you gave your birth father a strong "high five" (is what he called it). We both smiled. It was the first moment we both got to share with you and it was so...parent-like.
After reliving that memory just now, I guess I can change my statement to I know your birth father loves you. But he loves you in a different way.
I feel sorry for your birth father Scott some days. I feel sorry for him because the only memories he has of you after your passing are the ones I created for him. He will never know how beautiful you looked in person, how sensitive it was to hold you, how beautiful your precious eyes were, your cute stubby nose, soft skin, big feet, smooth hair and full belly. All your birth father has of you is seven pictures, a footprint, and a wrist band. That's all.
I shared with my manager that your birth father left the hospital early that morning and refused to come back after you were born still to even see you. "I can't see him like that.."; I can sometimes still hear his monotone voice saying those words as I tell the story.
I was so confused. I asked my manager how a "father" could just leave and choose not to hold their child for the first and last time. To give their child their first and last kiss. To force me, your mother, to endure that hurt and pain alone; without the child's father. What kind of father is that? What kind of person is that? "A coward." He replied.
My eyes widened. I was speechless.
The blessing behind this is that you, Cameron, do not see it the same way I do; the same way others see it. You are probably so much more forgiving than I am. You are more compassionate, your are more loving. You are love. All you know is love. I carried and loved you your whole life...and then some. You heard my voice talk to you; sing to you, tell you goodnight. It was me who poked and rubbed you constantly. It was my heartbeat that soothed you to sleep.
The truth is, your birth father was afraid. He was scared to hold you, he was scared to kiss you and hug you...He was afraid to see you. Honestly, I was also, but I knew I could never live with myself always wondering "what if". As hard as it was to look at you, to hold you, kiss you...I'm glad I did. Those are my memories. That's what I hold on to, that's what I cherish. Your birth father's "I wish is had" moments are my "I'm glad I did" moments.
Cameron, you know your birth father's troubles. You know his aches, his pains, his regret, his fears. Comfort your birth father. Reveal yourself to him. Give him a hug. Let him know you're there. Show your birth father the love similar to what I gave to you. Even better, show him the love of Jesus. Intercede for your father when you see him do things he shouldn't do. Intercede for your father when he says things he shouldn't say. Let him know you forgive him Cameron. Don't allow him to forget you baby.
Cam, you know his heart, you know how he really feels. Help your birth father cherish his memories of you. Even the ones I created for him.
Baby I love you so much.
Love Always,
Mommy
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